I’ve always said
That you can tell how loved a recipe is
By how dirty it is.

Spattered with broths,
And sauces,
And other miscellaneous mixtures.
Dog-eared to death,
And worn at the edges.

Piles of these are haphazardly stacked
On teetering bookselves,
All over the house.

There are those however;
That never leave the shelf.
Those which are not used.
Like the recipe for pecan pie,
Because her son is allergic to nuts,
And even though he moved out of the house years ago,
It still sits untouched.

But, there are others that remain
On the precarious cases.
But these are stained along the rims,
And bent and folded into
Origami.
These are no longer needed.
These have been used more times
Then she can count of on her fingers
And toes.
And her neighbors fingers.
These have been devoted to memory,
So the books are not needed.

Something crackles and pops on her stove.
Something else sends pillows of steam out of the oven.
Rich and sweet,
Like chocolate.
It might just be chocolate.

But alas,
The doorbell is ringing.
Ding-
Dong.
Like Sunday chimes
But lower.

So she slips on the oven mitts
Her daughter made her.
For mother’s day.
Pink, and blue and black.
Their favorite colors.
And she gently opens the oven door
And waits for the heavy steam to clear.
Then she slips out that
Rich, sweet dish,
Sets it on the table
With a checkered tablecloth.

Then the slips the mitts back off,
Puts on her most welcoming of smiles
And opens the door.
Shows in the guest,
And they sit down,
And eat.